


to the savior of the savior king

by Angyie



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Dimidue Week 2019, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, M/M, Post-Time Skip, Pre-Time Skip, also hopefully let's overthrow the power imbalance with this week challenge, bro im burried next to you, bro we're holding hands in our graves, for prompt number 3, mentions of torture, they're just. they're just in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-09-26 14:23:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20391145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angyie/pseuds/Angyie
Summary: There was a mirage in the king's shadow, always, as if it had been born there. But the king always looked back at him like he was expecting the sunrise's light.A collection of works for #DimidueWeek2019.





	1. #1: cooking

**Author's Note:**

> Dimidue aka their paired ending sent me into the stratosphere so here we go for the Dimidue week for 2019!

The whispers that crawl along the stone cold walls of the monastery, escaping through the broken shards of the windows’ glass, to be lost in the wind blowing on this desolated place like the desperate man at his dying campfire, they are familiar to Dedue’s ears. Perhaps the only thing that hasn’t changed in those past five years.

They follow him, they prattle with the echo of his footsteps with excitement in the corridors, like old friends around a cup of mint tea at a table with fancy decoration, whose colors have been washed away by the dust of war. The conversations, however, have retained nothing of the innocence of students promised to a brighter future.

Dedue cared little for the whispers five years ago, when they were all about the clash of his snow white hair and his skin, the supposed blood on his hands that tainted the grounds of his homeland until they couldn’t wash out the colors. Now, he finds himself unable to ignore them.

_ “A fool’s errand, bringing food to the mad king,” _ they mock him. _ “Imperial blood is the only sustenance he craves.” _

Indeed, the plate resting in his large palm is fuming with a warm gratin, while a white peach sits against a Noa fruit. Flavors mix until their aromas perfume the entire diner hall even when he leaves for the cathedral, making everyone salivate with envy when they turn back to their war rations. The cooks for the war effort aren’t targeting flavor but efficiency after all, but Dedue has no interest in aiding them. He just scrapes the leftovers he can find and crafts a meal that he hopes can befit a king. Or perhaps, in vain hopes, it can remind a beast that it used to be human.

_ “What a waste,” _ the whispers won’t leave him in peace.

No one dares to approach the cathedral too much, he realized quickly once he joined with the Kingdom’s resistance army. The few brave that do, they stay in the aisles to pray, even if the broken altar of the goddess is too far. Between that and them stands quite the obstacle.

At least, in the holy sanctum, his footsteps are finally alone. He makes them purposely loud - the first day he was back, he made the mistake of being too quiet and he paid the price with bruises on his bicep and throat, and what could have been a stab wound.

Dimitri makes no movement to acknowledge his presence. Dedue doesn’t expect him to.

He kneels to a king that wears no crown and puts down the tray on the dusty, cracked ground. The food is now lukewarm, but it still is a feast considering the circumstances. In a few hours, he will come pick it up, the food cold, untouched like the empty cathedral is, as if the despair of a man spreads ice all around him until his heart beats no more. Mercedes and Annette will look at him with defeat when he goes back to the kitchens, like his miraculous return was the supposed final touch to their efforts to bring Dimitri back to them, and Dedue will try again tomorrow.

It’s alright. Hope, while Dedue has it, won’t bring him much further, he knows. Loyalty will, even if further is down, down, down in hell.

.

_ “I can’t taste anything now. I’m sorry.” _

_ Each day, Dedue’s presence pesters the cooks in the royal palace’s kitchens until Rodrigue has to intervene so they let him experiment in peace. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes when he looks at the persevering child, even when his efforts are futile every single day. _

_ “I’m sorry.” The prince looks back at him above his plate with tears that won’t drop, every single day. _

_ “I’ll try again.” Dedue bows with ever boiling determination. _

_ “I can’t taste anything,” Dimitri whispers over and over against Dedue’s neck when they get tangled in each other in the young prince’s bed, careless of the assured scandal to find a servant - and Dedue’s presence in the royal halls is already one in itself - holding his crumbling master so close against him. _

_ “What else am I going to lose to war, Dedue?” _

.

Taking back Fhirdiad is like taking back a home Dedue never knew he had. Four years he spent striding across the regal hallways of those who had destroyed his home, as if the roof above his head was nothing but a folly. But when the last of Cornelia’s forces have scattered, he finds himself sighing fondly as his steps naturally take him towards the kitchens.

They’re not empty, however. “Your Highness?”

“I do have my throne back, you know,” Dimitri says, his back turned to him.

“Your Majesty, my apologies--”

A small chuckle. “I’m joking, Dedue. It’s only you and me.” Then, as Dedue approaches, he straightens up and looks around with a wistful flame in his eyes. “It feels like a lifetime ago since the last time we were here, doesn’t it?”

“A lot has happened.”

“And you’re still there despite all the things I did,” Dimitri looks at him like he can’t quite believe Dedue is there.

The conversation feels like a rehearsal or some sort of déjà-vu. Dedue’s answer is ready on his lips ( _ “I swore an oath,” _ as if it was enough of an obvious reason) and he already knows what Dimitri will say in return.  _ (“And many times I have told you, such formalities don’t matter between you and me. Your choice does.”) _

So instead, Dedue just nods, ever at his prince’s side. Tired as he is, he has no heart to argue like they always do. Dimitri seems to relax in the silence, until Dedue’s eyes wander on the kitchen’s counters where a (half-bent?) knife rests amongst raw meat and vegetables. At his slightly horrified look at the mess, Dimitri, his back leaned against another countertop, snorts and hides his reddening cheeks.

“Silly, isn’t it? I just… Gilbert has found the royal crown in the treasure chambers, but I said I’ll take it once the Empire has fallen. He replied that was good thinking, we don’t know which ones of us will survive until the end, so where lies the point in taking the throne only to leave it empty once again?”

He lets out an humourless laugh, his hands falling back like a heavy burden at his sides, as he leans back and lets his remaining eye travel alongside the ceiling.

“I just couldn’t bring myself to tell him my hands felt too weak to support its weight, so I thought…” He gestures vaguely to the mess of ingredients and utensils in front of them.

“Cooking was never your strong suit,” Dedue laughs fondly.

“Nor was gardening or anything else that requires delicacy. You were always better than me.” And Dedue wonders if they’re still talking about the same thing.

Dimitri is a man of few words. “Teach me, please,” he says, his fingers finding Dedue’s.

His eyes, they say:  _ “teach my hands to do something other than spilling blood.” _

The results aren’t perfect, of course. It’s awkward, to say the least, two men who have outgrown these walls long ago, yet their laughs, if fewer and more hesitant, are still the same when Dimitri breaks his third metal spoon or when the dirt of the battlefield disappears under flour on their faces. Still, the taste is a mix of Duscurian techniques, Garreg Mach’s spices and Faerghus’ refined flavors. It’s their entire lives in one dish, one that Dimitri refuses to share with anyone else but Dedue, one that says “I would have never gone this far without you by my side.”

.

It’s yet another lifetime later, but Dimitri’s fingers are sticky with a sugary coat as he carefully bites a piece of a Noa fruit in the castle’s gardens. The plate next to him is empty save for a few crumbs, Dedue notes with a smile as he finishes his own plate. The cooks will whine about Dedue doing all of their work in their stead, but Dedue is reluctant to share with them the short, but precise list of ingredients and techniques he’s accumulated over the years for a specific purpose.

“Dedue?” Dimitri asks between two bites. “Have you changed anything compared to last time?”

“I used a different type of spice. I believe they’ve been brought from Almyra by Lady Mercedes the last time we were there.”

“Hmm… Let’s ask the Gloucesters if they can import more of that next time they visit,” Dimitri sleepily says as the sun gently burns their skins, his cheek resting against his knuckles as he closes his eye. A simple request, but one that hides heartfelt gratitude for all of Dedue’s efforts.

Cooking, Dedue smiles, has always been their way to convey the unsaid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> any comments or kudos are deeply appreciated!
> 
> hopefully I can keep up the pace for the week, if not, well, I'll finish it. later. just like I finished the f/f collection. that I will also finish one day.
> 
> you can also find me on twitter [@vibraniiumstars](https://twitter.com/vibraniiumstars)


	2. #2: domestic & marriage / scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I liked both prompts so I did both at once? also @ me please write some light hearted and fluff for once in your life

At some point in his life, Dedue no longer awakes in a jolt - in his own way, which is quiet, but tense and ready to strike - with the clear, yet fading memory of his mother’s face smiling down at him, the familiar yet growing foreign weight of his brothers and sisters clasping his hands, nor with devastating fires and silver blades taking all of them away.

Those dreams, they do change in time, and he’s not sure whether to be upset that the flames claim another face now - his liege and his everything else - or that his people slowly fade away in his mind  _ (the only place remaining for them to live on, he thinks with panic and guilt) _ to be replaced with the only reason he’s still alive. It’s a raging storm in his heart every time he wakes and it takes a few minutes to keep it quiet underneath his ribcage.

And then, one day, a calm morning that isn’t different from all the ones he’s seen ever since the war ended, the storm scatters. He simply opens his eyes, blinks a few times, and that is all there is to it. It is calm and quiet inside and outside, save for the regular sleeping sighs of Dimitri next to him.

A slumber free of nightmares is even rarer for the king. He sleeps on his side, slightly curled up in a way that betrays his tension even in his sleep, as if he awaits someone to strike him. His fingers, however, are reaching out over the sheets, a silent and hidden plea for someone to take his hand and drag him away.

Dedue sits up as gently as he can. Dimitri stirs slightly for a few seconds but goes back to being motionless; it’s enough to shake the crown of hair around his head. A few strands fall in awkward places, freeing the sight of his entire face that he usually hides behind them. The now burgundy scar over his right eye is all he can see.

But Dedue knows there is more. Slashes across Dimitri’s thumbs because of the unskilled hands of a child who had to pick up a sword before he could learn how to read and dream. A stab wound that slid between his ribs. Burns from that fateful day in Duscur. Bruises and whips from Imperial hands before he escaped death.

There is one scar that splashes across his shoulder like a fallen star and that he absentmindedly rubs when he thinks no one is looking, one that is less than life threatening compared to the other ones he bears, but it is still the one that hurts the most.

Dedue knows every single one of them.

It becomes unbearable to think about as he slides his gaze over Dimitri’s sleeping form. Through the clothes and drapes, he doesn’t even need to imagine them. He gets up and walks towards the large window, bathing in the sun.

“Dedue? Is something wrong?”

He turns around to the bed; he doesn’t think he’ll ever be quiet enough. Dimitri stretches, but stops with a worried look when he sees Dedue’s tensed silhouette and fleeing eyes.

“You’ve been afraid of meeting my eye lately, my friend. Why?”

Dimitri is already standing, crossing the gap between them before stopping a few steps before him. He’s always been the one to move forward, but always with a look over his shoulders to make sure Dedue could stand and follow on his own volition.

“Tell me, Dedue.  _ Please _ .” It shouldn’t hurt so much to hear the king that never surrendered beg to  _ him _ .

“My scars are my pride,” he finally says after a long moment, when he can meet Dimitri’s eye, but he cannot for long. “Yours are my failure.”

“There’s no pride to take in our scars, Dedue,” Dimitri hisses as he looks away. “It’s a sign you survived, and for that you had to cut off the hand that hurt you in the first place.”

There is disgust in his voice, but Dedue knows enough that the growl of hatred that comes from Dimitri’s heart is a sharp weapon that is directed at itself, never at anyone. Even before, when the Empire took everything from his grasp, behind the promises of revenge hid a profound loathing for his own life.

“Still,” Dimitri says as abruptly. Swiftly, he crosses what’s left of the space between them, seemingly undisturbed the sun hits his remaining eye without a warning. It is piercing, as if it holds the power of two to compensate, when it looks right at Dedue’s.

“Mine are my sins and mine only. They are not your burden to bear,” the king declares. It carries the determined weight of an order. “If anything, as your king, it is my duty to carry yours,” he adds, and extend an hesitant hand towards Dedue’s.

They exchange a glance.  _ “Allow me?” _ is Dimitri’s plea in a small voice, shy,  _ scared  _ of hurting him beyond what he thinks he already has. Solemnly, Dedue nods with a profound, apprehensive sigh. Dimitri has always insisted to put them on equal foot despite his protests, yet it is still unusual,  _ uncomfortable  _ for him to be the focus.

Neither of them are used to hands hovering above their skin, ones that show no hatred or a blade in their grasp, whether these hands are theirs or not. Dimitri’s fingers travel over his skin, search for cracks and gaps that break its smoothness. They learn the layout of his body, learn the map that his own scars form, a painful story telling of his life. They start with the ring of his fingers, find the crook of his elbows, the curves of his back as Dimitri rests his forehead against his heart and closes his eye.

They find his face, hover above his lips where his breath caress the man’s skin and he closes his eyes to lean in the touch when they capture its frame, when he passes a gentle thumb over the scar on his eyebrow and his own hands find Dimitri’s waist and--

It’s Duscur, it’s Enbarr, it’s Fhirdiad and many more places and--

“All of them were for my sake,” Dimitri whispers between his clenched teeth and he seems smaller and smaller as if the guilt and the shame were eating him from the inside.

He doesn’t open his eye when Dedue raises his own hands. He simply nods against him, trusting despite how the fear shakes his limbs ever so slightly.

Under Dedue’s fingertips, Dimitri’s scars seem more painful than his own. They dig a trench in his skin, a riverbed for the flowing blood belonging to the souls he’s killed. They’re a proof of survival, perhaps to some. To Dimitri, he knows they feel heavy with the weight of the crimson rainwater they carry. To Dedue, he imagines them in their rightful place, on his own body. To them both, they are just yet another sign that they’ve lived beyond what should have been allowed.

Scars, he finds, are a reminder that they live on borrowed time, the one allowed to them by the goddess in Dimitri’s words, allowed by his own deities in his.

“I’ve sworn to carry the burden with you, always, Dimitri,” he whispers with his lips against Dimitri’s shoulder, near the star-shaped scar. In his embrace, Dimitri chokes out a sob, and nods in acceptance.

_ “I’m sorry.” _

Perhaps they linger too long, until the scars finally heal once and for all despite the years, as if the touch of the other was the final push they needed. A promise to stay. But Dimitri takes a few steps back and drags him away from their bedroom, fingers untangled with his.

There, Dedue can feel the delicate, crystal like sound of their rings clattering against each other, where underneath, their skin shall never know the pain of a scar, protected by the golden metal they will wear until the end.

His Majesty’s duties awaited them both, as long as the goddess would grant them the time to purge their sins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for the overwhelming support I got on the very first prompt, this is a lovely surprise ;; I'm glad you all enjoyed it~
> 
> you can also find me on twitter [@vibraniiumstars](https://twitter.com/vibraniiumstars)


	3. #3: AU (His Dark Materials daemon AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy I'm late, who would have thought.  
As always, English isn't my first language and kudos and comments are very appreciated!
> 
> (I promise I'm trying to write lighter prompts, but. you all know me by now)
> 
> warnings: mentions of torture.

As the millenium mark for the foundation of Garreg Mach approached, it was an irrefutable fact in Fódlan’s heart that the land would receive and flourish with the blessed euphoria of the goddess. The town below, years before the fated day, was already shivering with excited haste, ready to welcome the entire continent for the celebration of a lifetime. Songs and the sound of dancing shoes tapping the ground, smiles and laughs, abundant food and colorful murals on the walls, all to thank the progenitor god.

These days, the only things that are left are colorless and silent debris and the frightening tale of a beast with the shape of a man and without the one of a daemon wandering in the ruins.

It's an effective way to put children to sleep as they hide under their sheets and cling to their daemons for reassurance.

.

In Duscur, while many things paint them as an anomaly in the rest of the continent, daemons altogether are not the gift of the goddess. A blasphemy to the belief of the other peoples of Fódlan perhaps, one that reassures them into ignoring the peninsula altogether, praying that the goddess won’t punish them for such a sin on their land.

Seiros’ teachings want to make them believe Her Grace’s benevolence gifts a companion in the form of an animal to each newborn. A part of them as they morph into many animals until they settle into one form that matches their human the best when they reach adulthood, an unbreakable bond links them together. The final touch; too much distance between them hurts their heart in a way a blade never could.

A part of the goddess, for if the human dies, the daemon vanishes in a golden dust, flying in spirals towards the heavens to carry back their two souls to their creator.

But in Duscur, daemons aren’t such a thing. The goddess, like everything else, has no involvement, nothing to give to them as she always ignores their existence and leaves the land barren, so they will not honor and give gratitude and recognition in return. Instead, daemons are one side of the same coin, the human soul split in two pieces to ensure they are never truly alone in this world.

Dedue feels very much alone when Duscur is covered in blood, flames and gold dust that scratches the inside walls of his throat.

Clinging to his leg, Pomona whimpers; it’s the last day she ever changes form. Dedue is fourteen.

.

No matter how much he coughs, the smoke takes his lungs prisoner. He’s quiet. He knows his cries for help will be unanswered, every familiar face lost the life in their eyes right in front him long ago. He crawls, the shards of broken wood from the houses cruelly stabbing his forearms. He runs, his ankles twisting in exhaustion. He weeps and swats the tears away.

Pomona’s claws dig into his neck as she clings to him, trembling. She hasn’t said a word either in a long while, not ever since she turned into a meerkat. All Dedue does is sometimes brush his dirty fingers against her fur. To reassure her or to make sure she’s still there, he’s not sure. The vision of his mother’s daemons bursting into dust, way before the fires and the shouting started, haunts him.

He runs until his legs can’t carry him and he realizes he has nowhere to go when a few lances are pointing at his heart.

From this day, he remembers an inhumane shout that still resonates within him like a feeble echo that doesn’t want to die, a shaking boy covered in blood, his arms wide open standing in front of him and the gentle, warm flapping of white and immaculate wings above his head.

.

There is another tale in Duscur; once every cycle of moons, it may happen that two daemons settle at the exact same time, and they are just two pieces of the same, symbiotic puzzle.

.

“She’s never been a bird before,” the prince mutters to him a few weeks later. The blood and the ash have been washed away; they still remain in their memories.

“She…” Dimitri hesitates. He’s covered in bandages, curled up in a bed that’s too big for a boy that just wants to be small until no one sees him. Dedue sits at his bedside on the most comfortable chair he’s ever seen, although he yearns for the hard wood of his mother’s kitchen. On the windowsill, Pomona and Melusine, the prince’s daemon, are starting at each other in a mix of curiosity and distrust.

“I think she settled into a dove right when my father died,” Dimitri finally says, burying his face into a pillow he’s painfully clenching in his fist.

Dedue simply nods. It is a common trait in every culture this time that it is blasphemous to directly talk to a daemon that isn’t one’s own, and the worst offense is to touch someone else’s daemon, for they feel the burning touch on their soul itself. It would be more than impolite to speculate on the prince’s daemon.

Dedue wants to say something, but it’s like his voice burned with everything else these days.

.

“Melusine, settle down please,” Dimitri sighs as he puts his quill down and raises his fingers for her to land on.

“She won’t stop taunting me that she can fly and I can’t,” Pomona pouts and she climbs Dedue’s back.

Dedue huffs in amusement. Melusine is a beauty to behold. Quiet, regal, she likes to puts herself on the class’ chalkboard to look at everyone’s daemons. No one stares of course, but everyone knows she’s extremely diligent and makes sure every daemon of the Blue Lions is comfortable in the monastery. It’s a warm presence above their heads, a flapping sound of wings that echoes their leader’s queries about their wellbeing.

When all their daemons reunite, Melusine is among them, but never joins in when they start to fool around. She prefers to watch with a fond look in her eyes. Pomona, like her human, is but a step behind her.

Melusine likes to tease Pomona to no end, and they bicker gently like they’ve known each other for centuries.

Dedue surprises himself, but lately he’s been looking at the two of them interact even more. It’s with shame he averts his eyes; he shouldn’t look that intensely at someone’s daemon, but when he looks away, he can’t help but feel the shame is only artificial. It just feels _ right_, to look at Dimitri’s Melusine. When she looks back at him, it’s like everything shifts into its rightful place.

He tries to ignore it until one day he finds Dimitri in the greenhouse. Melusine is perched on his shoulder, chattering to Pomona standing among the plants, and Dimitri naturally joins in the conversation like Pomona is his own daemon.

With a jolt, Dimitri takes a step back when he spots Dedue at the entrance, a string of apologies coming out of his mouth _ (“My apologies, Dedue, I didn’t realize what I was doing, please, forgive me my friend, I shouldn’t have--”) _ and Dedue finally remembers his mother’s tales about symbiotic daemons.

But he doesn’t dare to hope.

. 

When the first battles break, a thief manages to grab Pomona by the neck and Dedue staggers to his knees with the shock. He’s fairly certain he’s blacked out for a moment. When he opens his eyes, Dimitri stands before him, his lance covered in blood, visibly shaken by his own actions.

“He-- He _ touched _you and I just couldn’t--”, the prince whispers to him later that night, passing a tiring hand over his face.

By a common accord, Pomona is to hide beneath his armor plates from now on.

.

In the cells of Fhirdiad, the first thing that Dedue sees is the floor, littered with white feathers that clash with the dark of the soot on the stones.

Pomona jumps from his shoulder to carefully approach the horrifying sight as if it would hurt her. “They… They plucked her, one by one, with their _ own _hands,” she quickly lets out in horror.

“We need to find His Highness. Now,” Dedue says, as if it hadn’t been the emergency for the past few weeks now. But his hands are shaking underneath the leather of his gloves and he has no one to guide him this time.

He didn’t know what to expect trying to find back his liege. Melusine, touched by hands that weren’t Dimitri’s, is the one thing his mind can't even imagine.

When he finds him, the prince is curled up in a corner of his cell. He’s clutching a piece of cloth that has seen better days against his chest. Once upon a time, it was white, probably.

“Dedue, I don’t know _ where-- _Melusine--”

Already the shouts of guards are behind him, so there’s no time to ask and think, and soon enough Dedue pushes Dimitri from the walls of the castle into the moats, ready to take on an entire garnison and welcome death itself, at last.

.

Pomona never vanishes in golden dust despite his injuries, which is the only way for him to convince himself he’s not dead.

He finds a place amongst the survivors of Duscur, but when he fights, without the reassuring flap of wings above his head, it’s just not the same.

.

It’s been three years, and it’s not like Dedue sees Melusine in every bird he can spot, but in a forest near the border between Faerghus and the Alliance, something white springs out of between the trees and violently bumps against his face with a cry, and Dedue just _ knows_.

He gathers the frantic bird in the hollow of his joined hands, and she gently brushes her beak against his scarred cheekbones while Pomona is trying to fill in the few space left between Dedue’s hands and Melusine, wrapping herself around the daemon.

“I don’t know where he is.” Melusine’s voice is filled with dread and crushed hopes when she realizes Dimitri is nowhere near Dedue. That in itself is just wrong, but so is a daemon without its human.

“I’ve been looking for so long and I don’t get why I’m still here if he’s not,” she says. Her words sound familiar for they’ve echoed in Dedue’s own mind for three years now.

(On that moment, he almost forgets she isn’t _ his _daemon.)

Dedue tries not to lose hope, but he recalls Dimitri’s frantic whispers against his chest while Dedue carried him out of Fhirdiad’s cells. He doesn’t want to wonder if a bond can be severed to the point a daemon can live without its human, but the question hovers in his mind and scratches persistently at the cracking shell around his heart made of the last hopes he had.

His fingers are comically huge against Melusine’s head when he absent-mindedly brushes her feathers. It takes him a while to realize that he shamelessly is touching her like she was his own, but he can’t bring himself to stop when it feels so _ right_.

.

The man with two daemons, they start to call him across the land with disgust, while tales about a beast without one are born on the other side of the continent, and maybe there’s an omnipotent force up there that wonders why no one is making a connection.

.

It takes two more years.

Dimitri’s remaining eye only seems to see Dedue, like he can’t quite believe he’s there.

Dedue can only see how Dimitri doesn’t even look at his dove, who just keeps asking _ “Why? Why? Why? It was supposed to be over” _ to him at night.

There is a storm of emotions boiling underneath his ribcage, for a while. Dread, resignation, acceptance that the future holds no place for him if that is where his king leads them.

Anger and disappointment, for the ghost that haunts the monastery’s cathedral is but a mockery of the man he dedicated his life to, and in a matter of a few seconds, all those five years of survival without a king are rendered useless and meaningless.

Dedue is not a man who lets his fists and words talk for himself though, so the storm remains raging in his chest. Pomona is _ him_, and she seethes her anger towards the closed gates of the cathedral as she keeps Melusine against her.

.

A scar on a shoulder, a crown and a corpse in the Imperial throne room later, the palace of Enbarr is oddly quiet despite the rush of the healers and the first few opportunist nobles who want to have an audience with the first king of the united continent. It’s in Dedue’s instincts to help with the cleaning of the gruesome battle, yet he can’t bring himself to as he watches the vacant, regal chair and the soldiers picking up dented armors and broken bodies around him.

He’s had his share of cleaning after someone’s mess and his muscles just feel too heavy.

It occurs to him that the soldiers are carefully building a safe distance between him and them, even though he’s clearly in the way. He is used to it; before it was his skin, now it is a mix of that and holding a daemon that isn’t his own. Some eye the meerkat lazily wrapped around his neck, but Pomona is tense despite the appearances, like a shield against his vulnerable skin. Melusine is nested in his hair until the colors of her feathers seem like they fuse with it.

Perhaps it’s more than just colors that are fused, because when Dedue reaches out to lift her in his hands, it’s like something is tugging on his heart.

“It’s time,” he says, and Melusine nods. The king’s quest is over. Dimitri’s soul is ready to be rebuilt now, piece by piece, even though there always will be one that will rest with the lifeless body of his sister.

.

He finds Dimitri far away in a remote tower for the messenger birds of Enbarr. Wrapped up in his dirtied cape, the man is sitting as he looks up at the birds that come and go above his head with a wistful look in his eye.

“I woke up one day, and all around me was slaughter,” he says when Dedue’s steps betray his presence.

A deep sigh. “I was covered in gold dust. In my hand, I held a dead bird. When I opened my fingers, the bones in its wings cracked.”

Another, one that is shaking. “And then, I fell to my knees, unable to move for days.”

It is silent, for a moment, save for the snapping of beaks and the songs of owls. When Dedue looks back at Dimitri, the man is looking at him with a look of resignation and fear in his eye.

“She is yours as much as she is mine, Dedue,” Dimitri finally says, bending his head forward like a servant bowing to a king. Acceptance, then.

“That’s an understatement, actually. You deserve her more than I do.”

Perhaps the anger and disappointment he directed towards his liege is still there, and always will, but it is so small compared to the turmoil he feels when his fingers brush against Melusine’s soft feathers, and Dedue realizes it’s the first time in a long while touching her allows him feelings that aren't his own.

Yes, Dimitri is ready, and deserving, at long last.

Without a word, he extends his joined hands and opens them. Melusine opens her wings, flaps them a little and flies.

Dimitri watches the display with a bewildered expression until the dove leaves Dedue’s hands, when a broken sob escapes from his throat. His lance clatters loudly to the ground as he drops it, making the inhabitants of the tower protest in annoyance. But it matters little, because Dimitri launches himself forward to meet his daemon. He clutches her tightly in his grasp as hard as he can without hurting her, and their tears are loud against the stone walls.

Dedue tries to ignore the tiny pang of grief he felt when Melusine left his side, which isn’t difficult because he is enamored by the sensation of warmth and being _ whole _within him.

.

From Dedue’s hands, Dimitri’s soul flew back to him. Dedue has just been keeping it safe from the world and the man himself until it was time to give his treasure back.

Dimitri thinks differently, because Dedue knows he is held by guilt and grief; Dimitri trusts him to hold Melusine, his _ heart_, like Dedue has the right to decide life or death for him, by simply crushing the wings broken within his fingers.

“Yours as much as mine,” he says over and over until Dedue believes it as much as he believes his mother’s tales.

Dimitri’s fingers hold no revenge anymore when they pass through Pomona’s fur, just like Dedue doesn’t hold Melusine like a servant holds the most precious crown, but like an equal holds a lover’s hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Roman mythology, Pomona is the goddess of fruit trees, gardens and orchards, which I think was fitting with Dedue’s love of gardening and his character theme being around giving back life (to Dimitri amongst other things) and being a protector. Meerkats are associated with fierceness, protectiveness, patience and resourcefulness.
> 
> Melusine is a water spirit in Celtic legends that is associated with compassion and vengeance, which is just in my mind what the BL ending is all about if you catch my drift. Also all of the Blue Lions/Faerghus names are from Celtic legends which is my own culture, so. Doves are associated with affection, chastity, fidelity, gentleness and innocence, which is fitting in my mind considering it’s all Dimitri loses in the war.
> 
> you can also find me on twitter [@vibraniiumstars](https://twitter.com/vibraniiumstars)


	4. #4: reunion

Of Duscur, Dimitri remembers the pain, the fire, the sounds and the smells. But what he remembers first is the solid, _ breathing _body he clung onto, which is the first thing he asks for the second he’s awake again - he’s hysterical, screaming between his curled knees until he chokes on air but he can’t bring himself to stop.

An hour later, despite the protests of the healers, Rodrigue brings inside his room a young, yet tall boy. He is still covered in ash and wearing clothes that barely hold themselves together despite the hours and maybe days since - _ since - _

However, that seems to matter little to him given the frightened, yet defiant look on his face; it all melts into earnest relief when his eyes meet the prince, who calms down immediately. He is still frantic when he rises from his bed, ignoring the cacophony of the voices of the adults ordering him to get away from the _ boy _ (the word is spat like poison), and to stay in bed because of his injuries. He collapses barely a few steps forward, but he has enough time to -

he reaches out a hand, and like in a mirror, another one meet him halfway.

In the following months, many try to separate the Duscurian boy from the prince, but they are both stubborn ones. Mostly, it’s hard to disobey the prince when they know him to despise giving orders like the people in his service aren’t his equals, yet he still holds the Duscurian boy’s hand like a lifeline as he hides the much taller boy behind him, daring them to break them up with a voice that carries the weight of the crown.

His Majesty Lambert did like to do as he pleased, after all.

“Everyone keeps leaving,” Dimitri whispers when it’s just the two of them, and he squeezes Dedue’s hand until it’s painful.

“Don’t leave me as well, _ please_.”

Dedue can’t bring himself to beg the same thing despite how much he wants to, because he doesn’t have much left either.

“What’s going on?”

“The Empire has started to attack!”

“Watch out!” Someone cries, but it’s a bit too late because a split second later, a ball of fire hits the side of the cathedral, and the world collapses.

When Dimitri awakes, a high pitched sound is ringing in his ears, splitting his skull open. His vision comes and goes, blurring at the sides as it tries to focus on the specks of pulverized stones spiralling around him. A few larger stones are laying across his legs and stomach, and he has to struggle to break free.

Immediately, his mind goes to his comrades, classmates, brothers and sisters who were with him when the monastery exploded. With a gasp and a jolt, he tries to turn around to get up, only managing to get on his knees, but they can barely carry him.

A few feet across, Dedue seems to regain his senses as the ground shakes again, and another wall crumbles nearby. Their eyes meet. If he can’t walk, then Dimitri will crawl to him.

he reaches out a hand, and like in a mirror, another one meet him halfway.

.

The prince of Faerghus is lost, has lost his last anchor a long time ago. He walks among the dead, or perhaps they walk with him.

Their bony hands, they close on him, their fingers intertwined into each other, a white safety net stopping his fall, and they close in more and more until the air is too thin to breathe and another skeletic palm adds itself on the pile, hovering above the last crack left in the protective shell made of the people he’s let down until -

he can’t see the light anymore.

_ Your Highness_, he hears, echoes hammering inside his skull, against their bones, amidst screams and wails for mourning and vengeance.

(It hasn’t occurred to him in a long time that he used to hallucinate them when he was asleep. He hasn’t thought about the basis of reality in a long time.)

he reaches out a hand, and like -

there’s nothing.

_ Your Highness _ \- and this time it’s different.

A javelin of light, faint, thin, flickering, but so powerful in the neverending darkness, pierces through the hands of the dead covering his eyes and his ears, and perhaps it’s the sudden and painful contrast but tears fill up his eyes as he latches onto -

he reaches out a hand, and like in a mirror, another one meet him halfway.

The first thing he does when his lance takes his sister’s life, once he’s chased the remaining ghosts away and shaken himself out of a numbing silence, is to look up, until he can find Dedue amongst his soldiers.

His feet carry him to Dedue, regardless of what is in the way, always.

When they’re alone, watching the fallen Enbarr from a balcony side by side, it is so instinctive that they can’t really tell who reached out first.

“If I were to fall that low again,” Dimitri starts.

“This time, I will be here to follow you,” Dedue finishes, and it’s an earnest answer that pains both of them with the unfortunate truth that it holds.

A sigh, Dimitri’s grasp on Dedue’s hand hardens the way it did every single time they found each other, yet his words this time are: “Perhaps it’s time we learn to follow our own paths.”

In time, history become a tale of legends. But alongside the stories of Loog and his beloved Kyphon, surely there was someone left to tell you about the first king of an United Fodlan, waiting atop of the Fhirdiad palace’s stairs every few moons, even when his body was weak from sickness in his last years, until a broad silhouette stopped at the foot of it, wary of the journey from his restored homeland to another.

they always met halfway, like a mirror image, and the king’s smile was the brightest when he said, “welcome home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @ me when will you learn to write fluff. when will you learn that your actions have consequences  
I'm not super satisfied with this one alas I grow tired of looking at it so. Shrug.
> 
> Thank you guys so much for the kind comments, they're a super joy to read~
> 
> you can also find me on twitter [@vibraniiumstars](https://twitter.com/vibraniiumstars)


End file.
